


Missing Constant

by WaywardSonsAndBlazingGuns



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Pain, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSonsAndBlazingGuns/pseuds/WaywardSonsAndBlazingGuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is at Stanford. And he misses Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Constant

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry guys, I gotta start writing happy stuff soon.

His hands ache. It’s not that the bags are heavy or anything … it’s just … Sam’s scared. He knows what he’s done and he’s happy he did it. He needed this, he wanted out … he _needed_ to leave. And he did. He got on a bus and said goodbye to never ending highways and overused classic rock and dingy bars and no good motels and greasy breakfasts. He’s free.

His hands ache because his nails are digging into his skin and have probably cut open his skin and are staining the straps of the duffels in his hands. His heart aches because, yeah, thank God he’s free but he also said goodbye to green eyes and freckles and throaty laughter that followed a billion inappropriate jokes that fell from those cursed lips.

He’s free. But he has a gaping hole where his brother used to be.

Dean’s not dead, no, perish that thought.

But Sam put some thousand miles between them.

Sam _chose_ to.

_How dare he?_

Blinking rapidly and shaking his head, Sam opens the door in front of him, setting his jaw and looking like he’s just a normal kid going into his room.

Blank walls, two tidy single beds, two tables on opposite sides and one window between the beds looking out into the campus. Fantastic.

Sam places his bags on the bed and sits down with a resigned sigh. He bends down to untie his laces and starts to unpack.

For the first time in _years_ , Sam unpacks completely. He doesn’t remember the last time he emptied his duffles and put them aside. He empties each pocket and places everything in the provided dresser or in the desk or on it.

By the time he’s finished he’s satisfied with the look of his room. Classes start in a few days and soon enough he’ll be so busy he’ll forget that emptiness inside him.

He’s fine. He’s happy. He has to be.

Sam heads to the showers; he needs to wash off the lingering traces of Dean that still cling to him. His face, which Dean held between his hands and begged Sam with tears in his eyes. And the rest of him, which Dean clutched and gripped and held on to for the life of him. Sam felt like those hands had burned through his shirt, left traces on his skin … they burned. They _ached_.

_Sammy please._

_Sam think about this._

_Sammy…_

_I can drive you there. Can I drive you there, Sammy? One last time?_

_Sam look at me._

_Sam? Sam I love you._

_I’m sorry._

Dean stopped pleading all of a sudden, and wrapped his arms around Sam in a bruising hold. Dean gasped for air and shook violently while Sam stood still, resolute and hugged back halfheartedly.

Dean tried one more broken “Sammy, please?”

And then Dean’s resolve returned and he smiled weakly, patted Sam’s face, “Goodbye Sammy.”

* * *

 

He drowns. Sam drowns under the work load and relishes it. He makes no attempt to leave his room other than for his classes or for the library. He’s suffocating. And that’s good. It distracts him. Brady dragged him out once, twice … three times. Promised him a good time, tried to hook him up with some girls, even a bunch of guys – but Sam almost always apologized and left or got shitfaced and made the other person leave.

The only time Brady caught Sam getting a little action was when this new kid showed up. The quiet, brooding, leather jacket wearing, spikey haired douchewad with a knack for getting in trouble. That was Sam’s type eh? At least that’s what he thought.

Considering Sam had him pushed against a wall and was kissing him breathless.

The duo didn’t meet up again.

At least not to Brady’s knowledge.

* * *

 

Sam met Jess. Sweet, caring, observant Jess. All credits go to Brady for hooking them up of course. But Brady thought he was doing Sam a favor so he could let off some steam, but Sam and Jess just left the party to smoke, leaning against the library building.

Not talking at all at first. And then breaking down.

Jess did at first. Her quarterback boyfriend from back when she was in high school had cheated on her and she found out via some third party that she wasn’t very happy about. She thought they’d get married, have the typical high school sweetheart love story that would fill her future generations with the false hope of the probability of falling in love like that.

Then it was Sam’s turn. He had loosened up a bit. And although he was not obliged to share anything with Jess he felt that it was only fair.

“Well,” Sam blew out the smoke from between his lips and passed the cigarette back to Jess, “we used to move around a lot as a kid and I never was quick to fit in. I made friends on the first day most of the times and scored pretty well but right when a school started feeling like my own, I’d have to pack up and leave. Me, my brother and my dad… I just wanted to be a normal kid, y’know?” Sam shook his head and leaned his head against the wall, staring at the starless sky, “I started getting sick of it and at one point, when I was like 12, I came home upset and pissed off and started crying too I think … Dean took me by the shoulders and said,” Sam dropped his voice a little, “Sammy, listen to me, three things are never gonna change, no matter where we go and what we face: one, good food and music supplied from yours truly – two, the smell of books in every freakin’ library we’ve ever visited in any goddamn town and three, me. I’m right here for you, man. No matter what happens, whatever changes, you got me. You got us.”

Sam hadn’t noticed that his voice had cracked and his eyes were burning because he was too busy seeing the memory play out in front of his eyes.

“You know, I thought I could do this. I thought this wouldn’t be a problem cause I wanted it so damn much but I feel like I’m 12 again. I’m that weird new kid again and that one constant I always had – that one thing I knew I would always have and fall back on … it … It’s gone.”

Sam wiped his eyes quickly and cleared his throat before turning to Jess. He laughed lightly, a small rueful laugh … because Jess was asleep with her head on his shoulder and Sam still felt hollow and still felt lost.

* * *

 

That night he tossed and turned in bed. Dreams full of whiskey and tarmac and leather seats and the blazing sun. And _Dean_.

In a few, Sam would be out on his own, walking on a highway and would hear an all too familiar laugh coming from somewhere behind him. Sam would turn around, swear he thought he saw Baby, and wake up. Again.

* * *

 

Dean stumbled through the Motel doors at 11:23PM, supporting his father’s weight and helping his old man to a chair before stitching him up. Dean was off his A-game this hunt but John didn’t say anything. He stopped saying much lately and perhaps it was because Dean was almost mute now. Only responding when talked to, going on every hunt that came their way without question, working with John in a weird rhythm that assured their hunts were mostly successful and finished efficiently.

But the closer they got to Palo Alto, the worse Dean got. But Dean shook it off and took another swig of whiskey, and John simply looked the other way.

Dean dreamed memories too. Fleeting moments of laughter and bitchfaces and eye rolls and throwing shit at each other and bantering. Irrelevant, unimportant memories seemed pivotal and whenever Dean woke up he was often irritable and disgruntled because he couldn’t remember the dream but the ache in his chest told him he had dreamt of Sam.

Dean dreamed of Sam again. But his eyes flew open at 3:41AM and Dean grabbed the keys off the side table, laced up his boots, got in the car and drove.

He made it to Stanford and found Sam’s dorm without too much trouble. He stood outside the door, hand raised, poised to knock and heart beating so loud he thought it would wake up Sam.

It did.

Sam rose from another troubling nightmare and ran a hand over his sweaty face and through his bangs. His hand reached blindly for the glass on the side table but when both the bottle and glass were empty, he grumbled and put on a shirt, shuffling to the door.

He opened it slowly, and walked into something … _someone._

Sam looked down, bleary eyed, mumbling a sleepy apology before continuing to shuffle towards the nearest source of water.

Sam heard a chuckle.

He turned around, expecting it to be his cursed imagination and seeing only the half open door to his room. But he saw Dean.

Dean wore a smile on his exhausted face. His eyes looked weary and tired too, his freckles stood out and his skin looked pale. Sam looked at Dean again. He looked weak.

He beamed all of a sudden, taking in Sam’s form. He looked fit and had filled in in all the right places and maybe even gained a couple of inches, hair perfect and messy and long enough for every girl on the campus to swoon over, “Lookin’ good, kid.”

Sam wanted to tackle Dean to the ground and not let go of him and kiss his face and count his freckles and laugh with him and talk to him and tell him how much he loves him and misses him.

Sam rubbed his eyes and walked away.

Dean didn’t follow.

 

 


End file.
